The Path of Sorrow

by David Pilling

  He fought his way out of the throng and stopped dead as an injured warrior staggered through the gate, supported by one of his comrades. It was Amkur Beg.

  Half of the old man's face had been ripped clean away, eyeball and all, exposing the muscle, bone and teeth beneath. Bits of bleeding skin hung in tatters from his chin, and yet he lived, breath whistling in his ravaged throat. Bail flinched from the ruin, and to his relief there was no sign of recognition in the chief's remaining eye. The pain had also ripped away his wits. Bail stepped carefully around him and the rest of the battered, bleeding survivors who came limping under the arch of the gate.

  From the gateway he could see all the way to the valley below, down beyond the sloping flanks, some three hundred feet high, of the rocky spur The Slumber was built on. The path leading up to the temple wound in a series of concentric circles around the spur, allowing those at the top to keep an eye on anyone approaching and drop rocks on the heads of any undesirables.

  Bail saw more warriors struggling up the path and was reminded of previous occasions when he had witnessed the shattered remains of defeated armies fleeing for refuge. Down in the valley, obscured by the dense woods, he caught glimpses of steel and brightly coloured banners among the trees and the faint clatter of harness.

  He leaned one hand against the ancient stonework of the gate and tried to think in his usual cool, calculating manner. Despite its high position, The Slumber was scarcely defensible, all its gates and doors rotted away and the walls in a decaying state. Still, if the Temerians could be prevented from getting up the path, they might have a chance of holding out until…until what? Until he thought of something better, maybe, or Sorrow did something spectacular. Or until Bail had an opportunity to slip away from pending catastrophe, with all his usual rat-like flair for survival.

  He glanced to his left and was not in the least surprised to see Sadaf had followed him. It would be difficult to get away with the big warrior dogging his footsteps. Using frantic hand gestures, he tried to communicate to Sadaf the need to defend The Slumber against the enemy. This was simple enough, for the clansman was not slow-witted and realised the danger, but Bail had some difficulty persuading him to understand that he, Sadaf, should command the defence.

  “I cannot,” Bail insisted, mouthing the words even though he knew the High Blood could not understand them. “I have to be elsewhere and very quickly.”

  He thought he managed to convey this, or at least Sadaf seemed to gravely accept his duty. The warrior turned and strode purposefully back into the court, brandishing his spear, shouting at his fellow warriors, cajoling the wounded and exhausted fugitives to get up, to fight again.

  Having disposed of two problems at once, Bail turned his attention to the next. Shrugging off his patchwork royal coat, the would-be King of Ghor fled for his life.

  * * * *

  The Maker of Pain writhed and shrieked, fighting with all his unearthly might as the tides of sorcery dragged him away from his orgy of killing. Hoshea had decided enough was enough, and his servant needed to be bound in chains before he got out of control. It was tempting to make use of him until all his enemies were defeated, but Hoshea merely wanted to win a battle, not commit genocide.

  “No, please!” the demon howled piteously. “I was free. I was free! Let me be, Master, and I swear not to harm you and yours. I will be your slave in perpetuity, just grant me the hot blood, the crunch of bone and sinew. Please!”

  “Be silent,” Hoshea warned him. “Or I will give you to Shalita. You know the darkness that lurks in the pit of her soul. She will make you her plaything, and then you will know slavery indeed.”

  The demon subsided, whimpering and moaning, and Hoshea was free to turn his attention back to the towering cliff before him and the ruined temple visible through the mists on its summit.

  The Eagle’s Slumber. He was aware of the place, having come across references to it during his studies of High Blood history, and had to admit that, in this case, reality matched the legends. It was an impressive sight in an ideally defensive location, and a determined and well-supplied foe might hold the place for weeks against overwhelming numbers. Only a foolish commander, or one who didn’t care overmuch about wasting the lives of his men, would think of attempting to carry it by storm.

  Hoshea was neither of these by inclination, but needs must. Having meditated long and deep into the night, he knew his objective was inside the temple. There was a risk of damage if he did hurl his army against the defences, but his target was not the sort that damaged easily. Hoshea considered he had no choice. He must attack now and sweep the board, or risk his prize slipping through his fingers forever.

  He studied the forbidding pile of rock before him, rising out of the surrounding forests like some monstrous plant bursting out of the soil. A narrow twisting path wound around the spur, but no one who wasn’t welcome could hope to reach the summit that way. An enemy would have to clamber up the southern slope, trusting to weight of numbers, lack of vigilance from the defenders, and stark desperate hope to reach the top without being cut to pieces by missiles hurled from above.

  Hoshea turned in his saddle to inspect the mass of his infantry, now drawn up in neat ranks, their bright mail glinting in the sun and banners fluttering gently in the light breeze. The voice of The Maker still gibbered inside his head, a distant complaining murmur, but he suppressed it. The morale of his troops was more important, and to his novice eye, it seemed perilously low. They looked sullen, fearful, and unwilling. He didn’t blame them.

  * * * *

  “Well, we're going to lose some blood getting up there.” Yesterday spat on the ground and squinted up at The Slumber, scratching his head as though considering his next move in a game of chess.

  Colken wasn't listening. He scanned the walls high above them and the surrounding area, trying to work out how he was going to find Sorrow, and when he did, how he would protect him. It seemed an impossible task to scale the mountain, pass through the hail of arrows and javelins, fight his way past the waiting warriors, and somehow locate a child he had never seen before in the chaos of a bloody battle.

  Pick, eagle-eyed as ever, watched the mounted officers farther down the slope, trying to interpret their body language. The one at the centre who he judged to be The Protector since the others deferred to him, made a gesture that was easy for a seasoned soldier to recognise.

  “Here we go lads,” Pick called to his fellow mercenaries. “We’re off!”

  16.

  The trumpets and bugles blasted out their martial song, the war-drums began their steady throb, and the mass of the heavy foot soldiers slowly tramped forward, like some great beast shuddering into life. Dense wedges of pikes and spears advanced, with mounted officers in brightly coloured sashes and cloaks trotting in front. Scattered units of skirmishers, peltasts, and sword-and-buckler men jogged on the flanks. The great host of infantry marched past Hoshea, rank after rank, and began their slow ascent of The Slumber.

  He turned to Shalita and the rest of his acolytes.

  “Fetch the boy,” he told them. “Alive and as whole as possible. Whoever brings him to me will learn all my secrets. This, I promise.”

  The pale hollow-cheeked young faces lit up with greed, and the acolytes jostled each other as they clapped spurs to their horses and followed the infantry up the slope. Hoshea watched them go and wondered how many would live through the day. He suspected Shalita would survive, come what may.

  He and his officers watched the advance in tense, nervous silence. The uppermost slopes of The Slumber were also wreathed in mist, so they heard, rather than saw, the first hail of missiles thrown from the temple. Distant cries of wounded and dying men drifted down the hill, mingling with the shouts of officers, the constant heart-thump of drums, and the shrill rallying call of trumpets.

  Hoshea glanced at his hands. They trembled slightly. So much depended on what happened here. To take his mind from his own fears, he looked across to where the surg
eons and their orderlies prepared for a long day’s work. Strips of bandages were being unrolled, and the fearsome butcher’s tools that might save an injured man’s life, or end it in a welter of blood and screams, lay out on the grass.

  He cursed himself for being fearful. He would not have to risk life and limb struggling up that murderous slope in the teeth of anything the High Bloods could throw at him or be involved in the grim work of storming the walls, blade to blade against desperate savages. Nor would his shattered body have to be carried down the hill by his comrades to be given over to the tender mercies of the surgeon’s knife.

  Shalita was not only possessed of more intelligence than her fellow students, but more pride and daring as well. A skilled rider, she guided her sure-footed mare through the dense lines of soldiers as they scrambled and struggled up the hill. Javelins, arrows, and rocks fell about her as she neared the forward ranks, but she was not afraid. Destiny beckoned her.

  * * * *

  The remnants of a proud and ancient race of people were trapped inside The Slumber, and they waited for the end with a savage determination to go down fighting. Before the High Bloods passed out of this world and into the annals of history, they would fight such a battle as would be worth any number of songs, or so Sadaf roared at them as he straddled the arch of the gate. He had lined the walls with his best warriors, each armed with bow, javelin, and blow-pipe. Any High Blood—man, woman, or child—who could hold a weapon or throw a rock was held in reserve.

  His heart almost bursting with sorrow and pride, Sadaf grinned as the enemy advanced. Plucking a javelin from the bundle at his feet, he roared and hurled it with all his strength. The slender shape of the missile arcing through the sky was quickly joined by hundreds of others—javelins, darts, arrows, and rocks. They fell among the sweating, struggling crowd of Temerians, clattering against steel, perforating leather and flesh, bringing their foremost lines to a halt as stricken men stumbled and fell. Their fellows stepped around or over them, disciplined lines breaking up as they surged forward, eager to get to hand-grips with the hated savages that had for centuries swept down the mountains to raid and plunder their lands.

  More men fell as they rushed the walls, but the tide could not be restrained or turned back, and then they were swarming about the walls. Troopers clambered on the shoulders of their comrades to get at the High Bloods, or hurled spears, or piled through the open gateway, slashing and stabbing at the picked warriors Sadaf had entrusted to stop them.

  A slender figure on a white horse galloped ahead of them all. Not for long though, as a rock hurled from above crushed the animal’s shoulder and sent both horse and rider tumbling to earth. Undeterred, Shalita fought her way clear of the kicking, shrieking beast and threw herself at the wall. She began to climb, encouraged by the admiring shouts of the Temerians behind her and careless of pain as the rough flint tore at her hands and feet.

  * * * *

  Colken scrambled up the steep slope alongside Yesterday. Arrows, spears, and rocks rained about him, and the cries of men falling in pain and being trampled by those behind them rang in his ears. He weaved between the falling missiles, running as fast as he could while loose shale crumbled beneath his feet, making it even harder to keep up the pace. The clicks of arrows striking rock sounded like a hail storm punctuated by the softer sounds of tearing flesh as many found their target, accompanied by the muted squeals of dying men before they disappeared beneath their comrades’ feet.

  Dickon roared as an arrow took him in the shoulder, but it only served to make him run faster up the slope, waving his axe. He was followed by Pick and Follie, both half his age and lithe as weasels, but still struggling to keep up with the big man. Yesterday’s war cry had faded to be replaced by panting and wheezing as he laboured up the crumbling rock, his sword weighing heavy in his hand as his ageing legs struggled to bear his weight.

  Colken saw something from the corner of his eye, a flash of silver to the right of The Slumber, away from the battle. Blue bounded up the crumbling slope with a long-legged ease and grace that made the lumbering soldiers look foolish.

  Colken continued to run, but his attention was on the dog. Without thinking, he bore to his right, shoulder-barging men from his path, drawn inexorably to his fate.

  Yesterday’s pace slowed as he stared after his chief. He wiped his brow, swaying as men rushed past him, rolled his eyes, and staggered after Colken. His progress was not as fast as Colken’s, but he persevered, relieved that his path at least took him on a shallower gradient.

  As Yesterday struggled through the tide, Pick looked back with a frown, seeing the two men heading the wrong way. Hesitating for a moment, he called to Follie, who turned with a puzzled expression. Follie had no such hesitation and immediately changed direction, chasing Colken.

  Pick screamed at Follie to stop, but his voice was lost in the cacophony of shrieks and wails and the clashing of arrows on armour and stone. He turned to see Dickon had slowed and was watching Follie skipping between men, desperately following Yesterday and Colken like a lost dog.

  “Follie!” Dickon bellowed at his nephew. As sadistic as he was, Dickon loved the boy and had promised his mother he would not leave him. He stood there for a moment, deciding which way to turn. Pick looked at Dickon, his eyes darting from The Slumber to his rapidly departing comrades, and then he came to a decision and ran after Follie.

  “Fuck!” Dickon roared at the sky and chased after Pick, carving his own path through the mayhem.

  Finally, Colken made it through the mass of men and broke clear of Hoshea’s army as it surged towards the doomed High Bloods. He continued running, following the path of Blue. On up the mountainside, his mind blank save for the vision of the hound running ahead of him. The great peak that rose above him seemed impossibly high, but he pressed on, feeling his journey was almost at an end, and if he stopped now, it would have all been for nothing.

  Leaping over boulders and skipping from one jutting rock to another, he felt nothing but the pull of the dog and of Sorrow.

  Far below, Yesterday stumbled into the open and stopped, staring up at the distant pin-point that was Colken, his hands on his knees as he caught his breath.

  “Of course,” he wheezed, “an even higher peak.”

  At that moment, Follie came running from the battlefield, tears now streaming down his cheeks.

  “Stop him,” he cried. “Please!” Follie ran past Yesterday and after Colken.

  Yesterday waved a hand at the boy as he ran past but did not have the breath to speak. He sheathed his sword, staring after Follie, still trying to catch his breath and calm the hammering of his heart. He closed his eyes for a moment, gathering his wits, and felt a hand on his shoulder.

  “Pick,” Yesterday croaked, still in no state to produce a full sentence. “What the...fuck?”

  “Where is Colken going? The fight is over there!” Pick pointed a shaking hand at The Slumber, now about to be engulfed by Hoshea’s foot soldiers. They looked at each other for a moment, lost for words, as Dickon steamed past them and ran on after Follie, his face red and slick with sweat, an arrow sticking up vertically from his left shoulder ans bobbing about like a child clinging to a wild horse.

  Pick gave Yesterday a bewildered look.

  “Think you can make it up there?”

  Yesterday nodded, taking a deep breath and massaging his lower back, and waved on the younger man. “I’m coming.”

  * * * *

  High as the temple of The Slumber was, there was a still higher peak, rising out of the plateau to lord it over the mountains and the distant, dizzying vista of the plains spread out below. Up here, the snow was permanent, and snow eagles nested among the glittering white crystals that formed layers on the weathered eternal rock. In the old days, when the temple was still inhabited, the priests liked to climb up this solitary pinnacle to survey the world and contemplate the infinite. Only at the highest peak of The Slumber, they used to say, could a man be truly alone and yet
see the entire world.

  Forgotten by his guards, Sorrow had made his way up here. Not by any physical means, for it would have taken him hours to climb, but by the use of the sorcery he had always preferred not to use. For he was indeed a sorcerer, like his distant ancestors had been. They were powerful, those people of old, and every one of them a sorcerer capable of manipulating the tides of power.

  He sat in a crevice among the rocks, hugging his knees and watching the events below. Icy winds tugged at his robe, threatening to dislodge him, but he cared little.

  Sorrow had come to the end of his road. He had been raised on the old story of the last of his tribe, how he or she would wander the earth and be hunted by everyone, like a beast in the forest. Never had he imagined he would be that sole survivor. His tribe, who over centuries had forgotten much of their lore, assumed it was just a tale. They should have known better.

  Bail, The Crooked Man, had been his only hope, though a desperate one. Sorrow had imagined the crafty outlander might be able to protect him, to find someplace where they both might live, unmolested by the outside world. That was why Sorrow had pretended to discover wisdom in the notes stolen from the foolish academic, Denez, when he had known all the time where The Heartstones lay. His plan had been to make Bail ruler of the savage High Blood people and make the mountains a fortress where no-one would dare come looking for him.

  He had failed, and now the consequences of his failure were being worked out below in blood and steel. The Temerians wanted him, he knew, as did the pirates of the Western Isles and the knights of the Winter Realm. Other more sinister forces wanted him for his powers, to cut him open and tear them from him. In his mind’s eye he saw one of these creeping like a rat through the battle below, a skinny fearless young woman with a long knife in her hand, careless of the slaughter all around her. She craved power, just like the rest, and thought she could get it from Sorrow.